Robert Harris - Pompeii

The heat of the torch on his cheek was unbearable. “This is no place to conduct the emperor’s business,” he said and pushed the slave’s arm away. “To whom am I speaking?”

“He’s certainly a rude enough fellow,” declared the third head.

“I am Lucius Popidius,” said the languid voice, “and these gentlemen are Gaius Cuspius and Marcus Holconius. And our esteemed friend in the tepidarium is Quintus Brittius. Now do you know who we are?”

“You’re the four elected magistrates of Pompeii.”

“Correct,” said Popidius. “And this is our town, aquarius, so guard your tongue.”

Attilius knew how the system worked. As aediles, Popidius and Cuspius would hand out the licenses for all the businesses, from the brothels to the baths; they were responsible for keeping the streets clean, the water flowing, the temples open. Holconius and Brittius were the duoviri—the commission of two men—who presided over the court in the basilica and dispensed the emperor’s justice: a flogging here, a crucifixion there, and no doubt a fine to fill the city’s coffers whenever possible. He would not be able to accomplish much without them, so he forced himself to stand quietly, waiting for them to speak. Time, he thought: I am losing so much time.

“Well,” said Popidius after a while. “I suppose I have cooked for long enough.” He sighed and stood, a ghostly figure in the steam, and held out his hand for a towel. The slave replaced the torch in its holder, knelt before his master, and wrapped a cloth around his waist. “All right. Where’s this letter?” He took it and padded into the adjoining room. Attilius followed.

Brittius was on his back and the young slave had obviously been giving him more than a massage for his penis was red and engorged and pointing hard against the fat slope of his belly. The old man batted away the slave’s hands and reached for a towel. His face was scarlet. He scowled at Attilius. “Who’s this then, Popi?”

“The new aquarius of the Augusta. Exomnius’s replacement. He’s come from Misenum.” Popidius broke open the seal and unrolled the letter. He was in his early forties, delicately handsome. The dark hair slicked back over his small ears emphasized his aquiline profile as he bent forward to read; the skin of his body was white, smooth, hairless. He has had it plucked, thought Attilius with disgust.

The others were now coming in from the caldarium, curious to find out what was happening, slopping water over the black-and-white floor. Around the walls ran a fresco of a garden, enclosed inside a wooden fence. In an alcove, on a pedestal carved to resemble a water nymph, stood a circular marble basin.

Brittius propped himself up on his elbow. “Read it out, Popi. What’s it say?”

A frown creased Popidius’s smooth skin. “It’s from Pliny. ‘In the name of the Emperor Titus Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and in accordance with the power vested in me by the Senate and People of Rome—’ ”

“Skip the blather!” said Brittius. “Get to the meat of it.” He rubbed his thumb and middle finger together, counting money. “What’s he after?”

“It seems the aqueduct has failed somewhere near Vesuvius. All the towns from Nola westward are dry. He says he wants us—‘orders’ us, he says—to ‘provide immediately sufficient men and materials from the colony of Pompeii to effect repairs to the Aqua Augusta, under the command of Marcus Attilius Primus, engineer, of the Department of the Curator Aquarum, Rome.’ ”

“Does he indeed? And who foots the bill, might I ask?”

“He doesn’t say.”

Attilius cut in: “Money is not an issue. I can assure your honors that the Curator Aquarum will reimburse any costs.”

“Really? You have the authority to make that promise, do you?”

Attilius hesitated. “You have my word.”

“Your word? Your word won’t put gold back in our treasury once it’s gone.”

“And look at this,” said one of the other men. He was in his middle twenties, well-muscled but with a small head: Attilius guessed he must be the second junior magistrate, the aedile, Cuspius. He turned the tap above the circular basin and water gushed out. “There’s no drought here—d’you see? So I say this: What’s it to do with us? You want men and materials? Go to one of these towns that has no water. Go to Nola. We’re swimming in it! Look!” And to make his point he opened the tap wider and left it running.

“Besides,” said Brittius craftily, “it’s good for business. Anybody on the bay who wants a bath, or a drink for that matter—he has to come to Pompeii. And on a public holiday, too. What do you say, Holconius?”

The oldest magistrate adjusted his towel around him like a toga. “It’s offensive to the priests to see men working on a holy day,” he announced judiciously. “People should do as we are doing—they should gather with their friends and families to observe the religious rites. I vote we tell this young fellow, with all due respect to Admiral Pliny, to fuck off out of here.”

Brittius roared with laughter, banging on the side of the table in approval. Popidius smiled and rolled up the papyrus. “I think you have our answer, aquarius. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do?”

He tried to hand the letter back but Attilius reached past him and firmly closed the tap. What a picture they looked, the three of them, dripping with water— his water—and Brittius, with his puny hard-on, now lost in the flabby folds of his lap. The sickly-scented heat was unbearable. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic.

“Now listen to me, your honors. From midnight tonight, Pompeii will also lose her water. The whole supply is being diverted to Beneventum, so we can get inside the tunnel of the aqueduct to repair it. I’ve already sent my men into the mountains to close the sluices.” There was a mutter of anger. He held up his hand. “Surely it’s in the interests of all citizens on the bay to cooperate?” He looked at Cuspius. “Yes, all right—I could go to Nola for assistance. But at the cost of at least a day. And that’s an extra day you’ll be without water, as well as they.”

“Yes, but with one difference,” said Cuspius. “We’ll have some notice. How about this for an idea, Popidius? We could issue a proclamation, telling our citizens to fill every container they possess and in that way ours will still be the only town on the bay with a reserve of water.”

“We could even sell it,” said Brittius. “And the longer the drought goes on, the better the price we could get for it.”

“It’s not yours to sell!” Attilius was finding it hard to keep his temper. “If you refuse to help me, I swear that the first thing I’ll do after the mainline is repaired is to see to it that the spur to Pompeii is closed.” He had no authority to issue such a threat, but he swept on anyway, jabbing his finger in Cuspius’s chest. “And I’ll send to Rome for a commissioner to come down and investigate the abuse of the imperial aqueduct. I’ll make you pay for every extra cupful you’ve taken beyond your proper share!”

“Such insolence!” shouted Brittius.

“He touched me!” said Cuspius, outraged. “You all saw that? This piece of scum actually laid his filthy hand on me!” He stuck out his chin and stepped up close to Attilius, ready for a fight, and the engineer might have retaliated, which would have been disastrous—for him, for his mission—if the curtain had not been swished aside to reveal another man, who had obviously been standing in the passageway listening to their conversation.

Attilius had only met him once, but he was not about to forget him in a hurry: Numerius Popidius Ampliatus.